Death's Good Intentions will be available Tuesday on paperback and ebook. The Kindle ebook is currently available for pre-order.
In the meantime, here is the first chapter...
I hope you enjoy!
The Black Horse
They were waiting for him on the little
island across the swamp. Their bonfire beckoned. They were naked, most of them,
and their pale, sweaty bodies jiggled as they danced around the flame. The
others wore black robes and sung a formless lullaby in deep, dark tones.
They acted like they were alone, not a care in the world as
they prayed for their Dark Lord to make an appearance, but they knew they had
an audience on the opposite shore.
Trey Decarr stood at the muddy shoreline with a gun in his
hand and an empty bottle of whiskey by his feet. He had been watching the show
since back when the fire was short and the bottle was full, thinking how best
to approach his quarry.
An informant tipped him off that this little island in the
Louisiana swamps was where he wanted to be tonight. The informant had hinted
that he would have company on the island but could not say what kind, so Decarr
came prepared.
He brought a wooden stake in case he ran into vampires and a
flask of holy water in case there were demons. As expected, though, the only
things awaiting him on the island were some backwards thinking people who
thought that Satan still appreciated orgies around the campfire.
Satanists. He’d come prepared for them, too, quickly downing
the cheap whiskey so that he might endure their senseless babble without losing
his mind.
Decarr wasn’t really concerned about the idiots bouncing
around the bonfire.
He was not a man without skills, especially with a gun in
his hand. Even with heavy drinking, he suspected he could kill anyone who
rushed him and scare off all the others. And if bullets became scarce he still
felt pretty confident in his hand-to-hand abilities.
Decarr was a tall, muscular man in his prime at age
thirty-five. Over the years he had earned the reputation of a big, dumb brute.
He didn’t appreciate the label, but had to admit that the shoe was comfortable,
and tried to have fun with the role whenever the situation allowed it.
He wasn’t exactly a handsome guy. His looks were too
intimidating, his eyes too dark, and any compliments about his appearance had
become rare indeed.
So, it wasn’t the opponents that awaited him on the island that
gave him pause. No, it was the fact that the Satanists had put a hole in the
last remaining boat on this side of the swamp. The rope that had tied it to
shore earlier in the day was now angled down into the murky depths.
He thought about swimming. It wasn’t far. Maybe five minutes
through the muck and he would be out on the other side.
It would be easy enough. . . except for the fact that an
alligator had been eyeing him since he arrived on the shore.
He only saw the big bastard’s eyes when the flickering fire
caught them just right. They peeked out of the water, colored the darkest shade
of black that ever existed, and never looked away from him.
Decarr couldn’t see the rest of the reptile but imagined it
to be almost twenty feet long.
If he waded into the swamp, the gator would be on him in a
flash. It would drag him under and he’d never see the surface again. His death
would be quiet. No screams. Only bubbles.
Conversely, he could shoot the gator between the eyes and
wade into the water unchallenged. Problem was, it would alert the groupies,
making things harder on him when he reached the island.
That and he didn’t really want to shoot the gator.
The giant reptile was a dragon made real on a planet which
liked to think that monsters were something that belonged to myth and fantasy.
An alligator couldn’t really help being what it was.
Decarr could relate.
Used to be that he had lived a somewhat normal life and
demons were reserved for fever dreams and bad horror movies. Not so much
anymore.
Now he saw the beasts everywhere he went, and those who knew
his face couldn’t stop themselves from talking about his greater purpose.
Decarr had pissed on destiny years ago and never looked
back. Instead of doing what was expected of him, he went to decrepit buildings
and backwater bayous looking for clues that could lead him to the remaining
Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
It was a long, dangerous road, one walked with baby steps.
First step today: walk
into a swamp with a hungry alligator as your swimming buddy.
Decarr swallowed hard and waded out into the water.
The alligator stirred. Its tail swished through the water,
creating waves along the stagnant surface. Mosquitoes took flight. In a tree up
above, an unseen bird called out, excited about the prospect of dining on
whatever tidbits the gator left behind.
Those black eyes came closer. Decarr tensed. He kept the
pistol raised above his head, safe and dry, and angled it in the reptile’s
direction.
The snout appeared above the water. It breathed in, smelling
Decarr’s scent, and released a guttural growl.
The thing was so close now that Decarr thought he could
count the teeth in its mouth.
Without a given reason, the alligator splashed its tail
through the water, altered its course, and swam in the complete opposite
direction.
Decarr remained where he was for a moment, half-expecting
some larger predator to come at him from behind, but nothing happened.
Maybe the alligator knew a challenge when it saw one and
simply didn’t want to risk bodily harm attempting to kill a man as large as
Decarr. Or maybe the gator was never hungry to begin with, it was just curious,
just taking a swim…
Or maybe it knew that
your flesh is rotten. That you’re dying inside. Maybe it knew that you’re Death
himself. Even the most primal beasts—especially the most primal—recognize a monster when they see one.
Decarr pulled himself up on the island shore, covered in mud
and vegetation. He wiped himself off and found that swollen leeches had latched
onto his stomach and legs. He tore the bloodsuckers off and threw them back in
the swamp.
Bleeding and smelling like the bog, Decarr cocked his gun
and approached the campfire.
Now that he was closer he could make out lyrics in their
song. He picked out lines like ‘your horse of darkness’ and ‘starve the babies,
burn the fields’ and knew he was in the right place.
His foot fell on a stick. The snap was loud but he felt safe
because their song was louder. Nobody had heard him—
A gun pressed up against the back of his head and a blade
tapped his spine.
He sighed and held his gun with loose fingers so that the
perimeter guard could snatch it away.
Dumbass, he cursed
himself. The fire had blinded him to the shadows on the island and the
alligator had kept him distracted from all else that moved. How had he missed
the man in the woods? The guard had probably been watching him this entire
time, just waiting for Decarr to swim across.
Decarr grumbled, “Take me to your fucking leader.”
The song stopped as he approached the fire. Those naked
dancers went for their robes, dressing like embarrassed teenagers caught doing
something naughty.
A woman stepped out of the group. She wore a pentagram
necklace around her neck and her face was scarred with old burns. Decarr
thought somebody must’ve thrown her in a fire once before.
Unlike the others, the woman showed no fear. Maybe she
couldn’t. Could be that those burns had disconnected her emotions from her
face, but Decarr didn’t think so.
She was the Queen Bitch, one of Satan’s lovers, and was
well-acquainted with the worst of Earth and Hell. The others might have been
posers, hopelessly drawn to this life by either local tradition or some long
festering desire to rebel against society and God. But this lady was the real
deal, a true believer, and one who understood the consequences for her actions
but said fuck it and did what she
wanted anyway.
Decarr would have to kill her first.
“Get on your knees,” said the scarred woman.
Decarr declined so the man behind him took a knife to his
leg. He faltered just enough for the guy to get some leverage, forcing Decarr
onto his knees before the scarred woman and her minions.
“This lowly creature is the Pale Rider,” the woman said.
Hushed gasps escaped the group of Satanists. One young man
knelt to bow down before him, but was quickly tugged back to his feet.
Decarr yawned.
She said, “Instead of aiding the cause of our Dark Lord,
Death has chosen exile.”
“I’ve chosen to fight,” Decarr said.
“And become a traitor in the process, killing our brothers
and sisters in a futile attempt to save the sheep from the fire. How many of my
friends have you killed, traitor?”
“They had it coming.” He gave the woman and her followers a
good, long look. “You all have it
coming.”
“You know that your cause is useless,” the woman said, “and
yet you persist anyway.”
Decarr shrugged. “We all need our hobbies.”
“If you killed all the other Horsemen, they would simply be
replaced by the next to be chosen. It’s a cycle and you cannot hope to stop
it.”
“We’ll see.”
She scoffed. “Big goddamn hero.”
“Something like that.”
The woman asked for Decarr’s gun and the guard handed it
over. She put the barrel to his head. “My name is Lorelai. You have heard of
me, yes?”
“No.”
He refused to blink as she pulled back the hammer on the
pistol and brought her finger to the trigger.
Lorelai said, “You came to claim the newborn as your own.”
“No,” Decarr said, “I came to kill it.”
The Satanists gasped. Some cursed him and kicked stones his
way. He showed his teeth like a mad dog and they backed off.
“You cannot have it,” Lorelai said. “However, before I kill
you, I will allow you the glory of witnessing its birth into this world.” She
nodded to a couple of men. “Hold him so that he cannot flee.”
The men were upon him quickly. One put him in a headlock
while the other kept a gun aimed at his heart. Decarr did not resist. Not yet.
He had to let the creature makes its arrival before the killing could commence.
Lorelai went to the fire and removed a burning piece of
wood. She stomped out the flame from the wood, revealing the charred black
underneath. She put the burnt tip into the dirt and started to draw a circle about
the size of a manhole cover, then scribbled black soot into the center,
carefully coloring within the lines.
“Now we wait,” she said.
“That’s all?” Decarr asked, disappointed. “A circle in the
dirt?”
“It only requires a door. I have created one suitable for
its arrival.”
The Satanists bowed and prayed and licked their sweaty lips.
A mosquito landed on Decarr’s nose. He wanted to swat it
away but knew any sudden movement could result in a bullet. He was about to ask
for assistance when a hushed awe came over the group.
The black circle, once so primitive and childlike, now took
on a shine like oil, reflecting the campfire on its rippling surface.
It swelled upwards slowly until it could take no more, then
the shiny black surface split, and a dark hoof appeared.
Decarr watched as tears formed in Lorelai’s eyes. The tears trailed
down her face, navigating the deep, ugly grooves. She smiled, looking wicked
and mad, and Decarr felt for the first time that perhaps he had made a mistake
in coming here tonight.
A second hoof appeared from out of the black. Together they
landed on the dirt outside of the circle.
The black circle bubbled as the head of a black horse pushed
out.
Lorelai, appearing uncertain for the first time, almost
moved in to help the young colt, but then stopped herself.
The horse slid out of the hole in the ground and fell to its
side, covered in black ooze. It kicked and neighed as it tried to find its
footing.
Finally standing, the black colt returned to the circle from
which it was born and licked up what remained of the black birthing fluids.
Soon nothing was left but the primitive circle that Lorelai
had drawn with soot.
Lorelai knelt beside the horse and patted its head. “It’s
beautiful,” she whispered. “So beautiful.”
“It’s evil,” Decarr said. “I mean, right?”
“The horse is only an avatar,” Lorelai said and pulled the
black fluid out of the horse’s mane. “Like you, it’s given little choice about
its purpose in this world. It is tied to its rider and through him it is tied
to fate.”
“Him,” Decarr repeated.
Lorelai frowned, realizing her error.
“So, the Black Rider is a man this time,” Decarr said. “Who
is Famine and where can I find him?”
Lorelai rose up from the horse. She drew her gun and aimed
at his head.
Lightning flashed. There was no thunder, no rain.
Lorelai’s focus was on Decarr, so she did not notice that the
lightning didn’t come from the sky.
Her head snapped to the side and hot blood splashed onto
Decarr’s face.
A chain with a barbed spike at the end had shot through the
air, embedding itself into Lorelai’s skull.
The chain originated from a pulsing orb of light that
hovered over the ground.
The Satanists screamed as the orb grew, forming a portal and
tearing a hole in the fabric of space. Around the edges of the portal were
flashing bolts of purple and blue lightning.
The chain in Lorelai’s head yanked back, tearing her skull
in half, and disappeared back into the portal.
Most of Lorelai’s followers ran, diving into the swamp in a
desperate attempt to flee. Others stood their ground, firing round after round
into the portal.
Dozens of chains, all tipped with barbs, shot out from the
portal, spearing the armed gunmen and ensnaring those who tried to flee.
The black horse hurried over to Decarr and nuzzled against
him. Despite himself, he wrapped his arms around it, holding it tight.
The chains ripped the people into pieces. The others died
screaming as they were pulled through the portal, never to be seen again.
When only Decarr and the horse remained, the chains
disappeared from whence they came.
Decarr pried the pistol from Lorelai’s stiffening fingers and
watched as a man stepped out from the portal.
The man was naked from head to toe and covered in a red
lubricant. He lacked any hair on his head or body. His skin smoked and he
smelled burnt.
Decarr asked, “Did you forget your pants?”
The visitor regarded Decarr with respect. “You are he,” the
man said with a Spanish accent.
“Am I?” Decarr asked and did his best to hide the pistol
behind his back.
“Death,” the man said. He bowed slightly but was careful not
to break eye contact.
“That I am,” Decarr confirmed.
“I am the keeper of the sacred texts of Angralahr and master
of the dark arts. Leung Bai was my teacher and you may consider me his
protégé.” He bowed once more. “I am the sorcerer Vasco.”
“What, like a magician?”
“No, not like a magician.” Vasco came closer. “Your attempt
at humor does not mask your fear.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Decarr said.
“Then why are you holding a gun behind your back?”
Decarr smirked and brought the gun into view.
Vasco said, “Mortal weapons cannot kill me.”
“I find that basically anything succumbs as long as you
shoot it enough.”
The nude sorcerer spread his arms out wide and welcomed
Decarr to try.
Decarr drew and fired six bullets at Vasco’s chest. Each
bullet was deflected by a vibrant flash of red light and fell harmlessly to the
dirt.
The sorcerer closed the distance between them rapidly.
Decarr tried to protect himself, but Vasco swiped his hand across Decarr’s
stomach, leaving a deep gash.
Decarr stumbled backwards, clutching his belly as blood
flowed through his fingers. He stared at Vasco, whose blood-soaked hand now
appeared as a beast’s paw, with long talons and scales.
Vasco came at him again, but Decarr was ready. When Vasco
went for his throat, Decarr raised his pistol to Vasco’s head and fired one
more shot at close range. His aim wasn’t perfect, but the bullet took off
Vasco’s left ear.
The sorcerer screamed and clutched the side of his head.
Decarr laughed. He wanted to finish Vasco off, but his legs
had become like noodles. After taking one step he collapsed into the dirt,
still clutching his bleeding stomach.
Vasco growled at him and opened his clawed hand, but his
attention was diverted by the sound of the horse’s hooves.
The young colt bucked nervously, surrounded by the dead and
the dying. Vasco’s hands became normal once more and he patted the horse
reassuringly, calming the animal.
Taking the horse gently by the back of the neck, Vasco led
it towards the awaiting portal. The horse did not seem frightened, it walked
alongside him willingly, purposefully.
Getting back to his knees, Decarr aimed his pistol at the
back of Vasco’s head.
The horse entered the portal, disappearing into the glow.
Vasco remained standing outside of the portal for a moment, as if waiting for
Decarr to pull the trigger.
“Why do you hesitate?” Vasco said without turning around.
“Why would you let me live?” Decarr asked.
Vasco looked over his shoulder with a grin on his face.
“Simply because it’s easier that way.”
Without another word, Vasco passed through the portal. The
portal closed after him, leaving a burn mark on the dirt and grass.
Decarr got to his feet, holding his guts in with his hands.
In almost every conceivable way, he had failed. The horse had escaped and he
had been defeated by a new and strange enemy.
Naked magicians, horses growing out of crap in the ground,
crazy Satanists; it had been a long night. He’d try not to let the loss go to
his head. There were still things to do.
He
needed to find the black horse’s rider.
Thanks for reading!
Death's Good Intentions will be available Tuesday.
